You wear nothing but yourself
by Anuna
Summary: Kate has to deal with different kinds of scars. Castle/Beckett, post season 3


**Title:** You wear nothing but yourself  
><strong>Characterspairing:** Castle/Beckett  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> 3x22  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M - ish, for vaguely graphic content  
><strong>Author's notes:<strong> this took ages to complete. It was **fex_84**'s idea, and I put it into words after we had a long discussion about Kate and scars. No beta. the title is borrowed from Dave Matthews. I wrote this several weeks ago, before the season 4 premiere aired. I guess you can treat it like a future fic, or an alternate timeline fic or something. :)

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><p>There's a thing about scars – the way you almost forget about them until something in there hurts, even though on the outside they appear unchanged. Or, until you wear nothing but yourself and stand in front of the mirror to wonder what the hell have you become.<p>

Kate tells herself that over a month long hospital confinement does that to you. Being shot in the chest and cheating death does that to you. Rationally, she knows how these things go. Recovering from a gunshot wound – a proper recovery - takes months. She'd seen other cops in this place, heard the stories about not feeling like yourself and taking it slowly, until you finally could run up the stairs like you're supposed to. Nothing had prepared her for reality, though – not being able to count on her body, her most reliable companion.

The pain lingers for days and days. It claws up her her body and weighs down her limbs, it makes her slow and uncertain in her own skin. The scar tissue feels like it's going to rip open, like there's still a big damn hole inside her chest. She looks into the mirror to remind herself that everything is in place, stitched up and glaring red; and then she looks away. Just a month ago it wasn't like that, she didn't look like that. Kate suspects that the void she's feeling has a metaphorical nature, something that skin cannot cover. (Castle could probably explain it. If she asked him. But they don't talk about that). She hates it and tries to ignore it as she struggles upward on her way of recovery.

She knows there are different kinds of scars. Each of them feels differently – skinned knees and an old scratches, they barely exist on the skin – surface of her memory. Even that knife cut scar she'd gotten in fight doesn't feel like this. This, this _thing_, it runs through the middle of her. It feels like a divide of before and after, marking a loss she still cannot fully comprehend. The angry red line stretches between her breasts, with residual swelling and glaring marks of the stitches, almost as big as a heart surgery scar.

It's the _details_that strike her, and the little things that she can't do, which worry her the most. In general, she is still Kate, with same height, and a little less weight, same eye color and hair. There are moments when she looks at the mirror, fully dressed and with decent make up, and she even likes what she sees.

She's alive - God, she's _alive_. It still comes like something she has to remind herself of. She had survived - but there are those little things; things she deemed so trivial and unimportant _before_, that keep reminding her of the price she had to pay. It might be just a little insane, but there are moments when she's worried if she'll be able to wear her favorite dress. It just wasn't important before. She stares at the scar staring back at her, telling her that things are different, that _she_ is different now. _You're marked_it says. She's not sure for what, but she knows there's a damage now she can't erase.

Kate stands in front of a mirror staring at her body with an odd sense of detachment mixed with tinges of denial. It bothers her more than the pain and weakness, because she knows those, knows how to fight and overcome them. She has never been vain, but she was aware of the way she _looked_, and admittedly she had built her confidence on both her exterior and, more importantly, a body that never failed to obey her. The red line in the middle of her tells her she's lost that, and she's not certain how much of it can be recovered.

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><p>She came to associate the sound of doorbell with frustration. Getting up from the sofa has to be planned – right movements, correct angle, the way to straighten up which doesn't bring the sharp pain in her chest.<p>

She knows who will be waiting on the other side of the door. He rings only once and allows her time to struggle her way to the doorknob, so they can both pretend she still has some dignity left.

Castle lifts a paperbag he's holding in his right hand. The smile on his face is genuine, but there's a tentative, inquiring undertone to it, and even that feels frustrating. He's been treating her differently since when it happened, and it only serves to remind her that _she_is different. They linger in her doorway for an awkward moment, and it reminds her of the last year when he came back from Hamptons. It's different, and at the same time it's not. It feels like they're running in a loop, or perhaps waking up to face an almost identical day. It's a book they both know, with pages and conversations they skip, looking for a blank page to start over from.

Kate lets him in. She forces a smile, and forces the pain out of her mind. It doesn't matter if he sees through her as long as they keep up with it. It takes a moment until she feels her muscles adapt, until she reminds herself who he is, and the sentiment behind her expression becomes genuine. She relaxes a bit while he unpacks half dozen different take out boxes; watches him move through her kitchen while she experiments the most comfortable posture. That bit is new, her allowing him to take care of her even in this symbolic way. In reality, she knows it's not exactly true. There was coffee. There were nights they spent in the precinct in front of the murder board, and this, right now, is simply an extension of what they had.

He talks – like he always does; about his book, about the movie; Alexis, new clubs and Old Haunt; everything and anything except one thing. She's thankful for that. For someone who walks right past drawn lines, Castle is being unobtrusive and considerate ever since she woke up, visiting her once or twice a week. He's so careful not to make her feel overwhelmed, and he's somewhat desperate to keep pretending nothing has changed.

There are no mentions of the shooting either. Perhaps he assumes that she doesn't remember much of the event, but she does. There's no blur on her memory, she recalls the entire day and event, and everything that happened – everything Rick had said to her, on that day and prior to that. It's just a different kind of scar.

She sets the plates and he spreads the food between them on the table, pours them both a glass of wine and for a moment they eat in silence. The takeout food is definitely not the choice of her doctor, but it feels good. It feels ordinary. The conversation starts flowing easily, fueled with the atmosphere they set up so carefully. This evening he's telling her about places he's been to; weird places and eccentric things she's never heard of before. He's good at that after all, telling and keeping her mind away from things that keep staggering back. Kate doesn't mention she had noticed how he's avoiding certain topics; how he doesn't mention Esposito or Ryan, even though he's seeing them on somewhat regular basis. She doesn't ask. It keeps this entire thing safe, like keeping words and kisses and freezers at a safe distance. But the bad thing is, this feels like them without truly being _them_. Beckett and Castle have no murders to solve; instead Kate has a scar and a partner and neither has a fitting place in her life.

It's her second glass of wine when she finally slips and honestly tells him that pain is frustrating, that her body doesn't behave the way it used to. She doesn't offer details, but telling him even so little feels like a weight being lifted from her. He listens like only he can. There's no pity in his eyes, but she wonders what he really sees when he looks at her like this. Kate feels quiet and calm though, almost content. Almost. She removes a distracting strand of hair, uselessly hooking it behind her ear, stopping mid movement. Tying it into a pony tail still hurts too much.

"What?" he asks, almost like he can see her thoughts. She gestures vaguely around her face.

"I can't even wash my own hair properly", she says. It falls off her, like rocks crumbling down a mountain, leaving a barren path in their wake. She feels something between them shift and click and the silence drops like a weight.

She's aware what she's said, feeling a heavy press of sincerity settling between them, and this time she doesn't have the strength to maneuver back gracefully. She sees Castle, that _look_on him, one when she knows he's figured her out, ready to hand her back the truth. There's guilt and sorrow and something she doesn't even dare naming. She feels vulnerable, like she's never quite felt in her life. It's not something she wants him to see, this version of her that feels so small and alien. Part of her wants him to leave, but slightly bigger part of her doesn't say a thing.

However Castle doesn't miss a beat. There's that part of him who knows just the words to say when it really counts. It still feels a little awkward but he points at her hair (another thing she was semi consciously proud of – she's realizing now just how much.)

"It's not that bad, I mean, I hear that it can be, pretty healthy. For the hair, I mean."

She senses a door toed open in there. It's one of those things he does. She snorts.

"What was that, Castle? Flattering a girl for a lack of personal hygiene? That must be new."

He looks a little dumbfounded, and if she is completely honest with herself, entirely cute. His expression makes her laugh, but it all breaks too soon, leaving them to stare at each other across the gap with echo of the laughter hanging emptily between them. Everything's broken, she thinks, and stops herself before her mind runs to the next conclusion – that they're broken as well. There's something in a way he's looking at her – something that won't let her look away.

"Want me to help you?" he offers then.

Kate swallows, but just before he pulls away she's reaching out, something learned to do since he came along. He doesn't move, doesn't say a word.

"I'd like that," she finally says. It's just like that time when he came over, brought those flowers and called himself her partner; and she let him stay. It's like that time she told him she'd get him out of prison. She thinks back on that day and other days as he wanders into her bathroom and rearranges it so she can sit in front of the sink. He's babbling, a tell tale sign that he's nervous, just as she is. When she walks in with a big towel wrapped around her, the babbling stops and she smirks. It feels almost the same.

Kate sits down, closes her eyes. It's easier that way for so many reasons.

The feeling of warm water and his fingers carries a startling effect. It's not so much about the way he's touching her, or the fact that this must be the most intimate thing they shared. It's human contact, and sharp, surprising realization of how much she missed it.

She lets herself relax and almost forgets - almost – but then she simultaneously feels the towel slipping down and before she can intervene from her position, she feels Castle's fingers slowing to a halt. He doesn't have to tell her what happened. She opens her eyes and moves, tries to pull away, but it only makes matters worse – not because the towel is revealing a soft, thin cotton bra that's doing very little to preserve her modesty.

It's the scar he's staring at.

"Rick," she chokes. She uses his name so rarely, that it almost feels strange on her tongue. _Rick. Rick – Rick – Rick_; it rolls in her head as he stares and swallows.

Kate can see his entire expression harden. She gathers the towel around herself, water dripping everywhere as she flees toward her room. There are footsteps after her; but when he follows her inside she keeps her back stubbornly to him.

"Let me see it," he says. His voice is steady, a demand. When she doesn't answer, he says it, somewhat softer, in almost whisper,

"Kate. Let me see it."

She is so tempted. So _tempted_, for reasons beyond her immediate understanding, and as one part of her mind orders her to stand still and keep that towel in place, not to look at him, she acts on instinct.

Perhaps it's even a blind faith. Kate turns to him, for reassurance, for smart words, a witty remark, _something_. When she is empty, he is there, offering and giving. It's almost like a religion, she thinks. She realizes she is used to have her wordless prayers answered. There's something indescribable in his gaze when she looks at him, yet it's tangible, palpable, _real_. When did he become their first thing she reaches out for?

Kate turns down the voices screaming caution. The towel slips down slowly with her fingers and she lowers her gaze along with it. She still has a bra, but she feels naked and bared. He comes closer, stepping into her space, tall and huge and almost overwhelming. It feels like waiting for a judgment, because she isn't the woman she used to be, that confident, almost careless person who wore deep cleavages and miniature swim suits, and didn't even realize how much she counted on her _looks_. On her _hotness_. Oh, how she took it all for granted.

"Kate, look at me."

It's gentle, soft, but it's still a demand laid between them. He wants her to _look_at him and she does; like she should, because he's not just anyone. He's her partner. He's Castle.

"Kate," he breathes so close to her when she still hesitates, but then she looks up at him. She watches as he frowns, looks at the scar in much the same manner he observes evidence. She doesn't even twitch when he touches it gently, holding her breath as she looks at his hands. Then she closes her eyes. When she opens them, he is still looking at her in the same fashion, like he's trying to understand something.

"You are the most beautiful woman I ever saw," he says. It's raw and serious and honest, and he's standing so close to her, she can feel heat of his breath. Every word feels like it's melting against her, melting something inside of her.

"Castle," she says, half realizing how close they are, how intimate this is. She doesn't see it coming, but his lips melt against hers in the next moment and she presses herself against him, tentative and needy at the same time - a paradox that seems to describe everything about her and and him. It doesn't feel like the wrestle - kiss in the alley, a fake gone wrong. It's slow, deliberate, even willing. When he moves away he's out of breath and she greedily steals his air.

"Kate," his voice sounds just the way she's feeling right now.

"Rick," she says, leans closer, until her face is touching his, until they're kissing again, this time with more certainty. There's his taste in her mouth, and it's even harder to pull away now, because he somehow makes her feel attractive and desirable; he makes her feel _whole_.

"Kate," he breathes.

"Stay," she says right over his voice. "For a movie," she hurries, tries not to plead with him while she's holding onto him like she wanted to on that day when she fell down, shot. She remembers slipping, his face and voice were echoing away from her.

Kate isn't afraid of solitude, she isn't afraid of scars, but she doesn't want to be alone. Castle's arms settle around her, and she accepts that some things will never be as they were before. He nods at her words, agrees and cares for her like he always does.

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><p>Slowly, it becomes less of a definition, fading into a persistent mark on her skin. She stands in front of the mirror to observe her own image like she observes the evidence – not only the damage that's been done, but the improvement as well. Her body is done hurting and it's now she can feel her own progress as she becomes more and more of her own self. Most changes that have remained are now subtle – certain muscles still hurt, but not in an obtrusive, limiting kind of way; and the skin around her scar feels different, in some places almost – insensitive.<p>

But not all changes are subtle – some, in fact, gracelessly stumble into the bathroom. She wraps the bathrobe around herself as Castle rubs the sleep away from his face.

"Mornin'" he says to her reflection, standing behind her and leaning his chin on top of her head. She promptly leans back into him. "Hiding something in there?" he asks teasingly. Kate closes her eyes, smiling.

"I don't know. Am I?"

His arms push gently at her shoulders, enough for him to turn her around to face him.

"Are you?" Kate bites her lip; he shouldn't be able to tease her so easily when he's barely awake. "Should I find out?" He nudges her nose gently with his and her breath stutters.

"You could try," she says. He opens her robe even before her words are done leaving her mouth, and then he's looking at her.

It's become a thing between them – in the shower, in bed, or early in the morning, but not every day, and not every time they're without clothes. He looks at her scar, trailing his fingers between her breasts, like they're both checking everything is in place. For a moment his fingertips remain still on the scar, his forehead right against hers.

"Beautiful," he says, husky, heavy and completely honest.

"That's very nice," she replies, and even though she feels relief, her heart beats faster when she sees desire in his eyes, and when his lips delve down her neck, she knows he doesn't see the scar. He sees _her_. "But flattery won't get you anywhere."

"I have other methods," he says, making good on his promise.

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><p>Thank you for reading! Please be so kind and tell me how you liked the story :)<p> 


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